


cover my eyes darling (what's this i spy?)

by FandomTrash24601



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Arguing, Car Roach (The Witcher), Cars, Cell Phones, Corvo Bianco (The Witcher), Culture Shock, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Geralt is rich in this one, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt's lack of ability with words strikes again, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, I never got to the fixing it, Ice Cream, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Magic, Mentioned Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Mentioned Valdo Marx, Modern Continent (The Witcher), Modern Era, Multi, Portals, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Pre-Slash, Prudishness, References to Shakespeare, Sort Of, Swearing, Technology, Time Travel, Tired Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Wine, geralt is SO OBVIOUS it's a little sad, he and Picard are basically the same person except they're really not, it's called investments and being more than 800 years old, kind of, no beta we die like renfri, not really but kinda, ominous blessings and words of advice, pure Beffudlement guys, she's also a fashion icon, we're going to pretend he existed on the continent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27144977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash24601/pseuds/FandomTrash24601
Summary: Jaskier finds his way to the Faerie Realm after the dragon hunt. He emerges into a world that's almost completely unfamiliar; but only almost.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s), Jaskier/Queen of the Fair Folk, pre-slash Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier
Comments: 33
Kudos: 107
Collections: Good Intentions: Abandoned and Unfinished WIPs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been staring sadly at this poor thing for a while now and just haven't been able to get anywhere with it, but then the Good Intentions WIP-Fest came along to at least allow this little thing to see the light!
> 
> If you find yourself inspired by this, feel free to keep the ball rolling! Just let me know and I can create a collection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tagged it as such, but be warned! This isn't finished. It's a part of the Good Intentions WIP-Fest, where authors post what they have of those WIPs that never got finished but sit sadly among the rest, longing to be read.

The Queen’s words echo gratingly in Jaskier’s ears as he huffs and puffs his way up the stupidly steep tunnel. It would be easier if he were a mountain goat, clambering up the veritable death trap of loose soil and stones that clatter down the tunnel behind him when he knocks them loose in search of a foothold. He’s long since given up the pretense of elegance and is hunched forward, using his hands to keep from backsliding several hundred feet—or worse, tumbling all the way back to the Court—when his feet slip and his knees  _ thud _ into the dirt. His lute is nestled securely in her case, slung over his shoulder and he scrabbles forward and upward. He needs both hands for this.

_ Abandon all that you think you know. You will find yourself a stranger in a strange world, but rest assured it is yours. _

_ Thank you, Titania, _ he thinks as a grand puff of breath sends dirt flying back into his face. He coughs and wheezes and blinks tears from his stinging eyes but doesn’t let himself slip backwards more than a few inches. He’s not wearing the right shoes for this; he hadn’t realized that the way out would be such a fucking hazardous climb. He’d thought it would be a simple, slightly angled path, the dirt smooth and packed down with use.  _ You couldn’t have warned me about this during your parting speech? _

But she’s always been mischievous. It comes with being the Queen of the Fair Folk.

The tunnel to the surface is wide and tall, almost regrettably. If only he could use it to steady himself rather than rely on loose, dark soil. But there are vines growing across the wall, preternaturally green and sprouting luminescent bell-like flowers, and he thinks they’re sentient. They’d very likely not be pleased if he were to grab at them to haul himself upwards.

He’s long since given up on trying to keep his clothes or even his hands clean. There’s no way he’s making it to the surface otherwise, and really, the doublet and breeches are very fine—the exact shade of a peacock’s richest feathers and just as shimmery, with an intricate golden brocade in the pattern of feathers to boot—but they’re not worth the extra agony his caution would create.

“Fucking cock,” he mutters when he slides back a good few feet and barely stops himself from toppling backwards and tumbling all the way back to Titania’s feet.

He swears he hears her tittering laughter, tickling at the back of his skull. If he didn’t love her so dearly, even after their passion has faded and their time together drawn itself to a close, he’d be furious with her. As is, he can’t be more than mildly annoyed. She knows what he’s capable of and what’s beyond him, and wouldn’t send him on a fool’s errand if she didn’t believe he could make it up the tunnel and to the surface on his own.

Jaskier puffs up his cheek and lets out a controlled stream of breath this time, not wanting to get any more dust in his eyes, pausing to gasp for air. He’s not used to so much physical activity of this sort, and can feel sweat springing up all across his body. He doesn’t even want to know how damp his back must feel.

He tilts his head upwards, peering desperately forward, and gasps in delight when he sees a pale entrance to the tunnel. It’s still several hundred feet away and very small, but he can  _ see _ it now, which is a great incentive to keep moving.

He backslides many more times before finally making it to the top of the tunnel, where the ground levels out and Jaskier sprawls himself across the dirt, still in the tunnel but too glad to have found flat ground to move. He’s panting, and doesn’t have to be able to see his reflection to know that he’s flushed and sweat-damp all over. His muscles feel weak and watery, so he rests for a moment just inside the mouth of the tunnel, just inside Titania’s domain.

There’s a sheen across the mouth of the tunnel, rainbow-tinted and not unlike the surface of almost-still water. He watches it in fascination; he’s never seen magic itself before, only ever the results of magic. It’s enchanting. He briefly understands why sorcerers and sorceresses and the fae all act the way they do, drunk on this shimmering cloak of a pure force of nature.

_ Jaskier, _ he hears Titania coo from far, far below him. He can visualize her well, sprawled regally across her living throne, resplendent in her finery. _ I bestow one last gift upon you; your tongue will always know the way. _

What his tongue has to do with directions Jaskier has no clue, but he’s not going to challenge Tatiana on this so he calls, “Thank you!” into the depths of the tunnel as he pushes himself to his feet.

The air beyond the veil is warm but not heavy. He’s grateful to Titania for not depositing him in the middle of winter where he would likely freeze before finding a place to rest; the fae don’t generally like being anywhere near human settlements, so it’ll certainly be a long walk back to the nearest site of civilization. He has no clue what kingdom he’s surfaced in, and no real sense of direction other than using the sun.

He squints at the sky. It’s probably summer, if the heavy boughs and high temperature are any indication. Considering Titania’s flair for the dramatic it might even be the solstice. He can’t help but be disappointed in the land around him, having grown used to the supersaturated shades of the Court and it’s realm, but he’ll re-adjust in time.

He sighs, opens his mouth to entertain himself as he walks. “When a humble bard graced a ride along…”

It doesn’t really hurt anymore, singing the songs he wrote about Geralt. Titania had allowed him to sing and sing and sing, to purge himself of his sorrows until he could bear the thought of his heartbreaker. He owes her greatly for her patience, for healing the fingers he flayed on lute strings and drying his endless tears.

He wonders just how much time has passed in this realm. Has it been two years? Ten? A hundred? There’s anxious anticipation churning his stomach, filled with rich foods before his departure. He could have just emerged into a world that has dramatically changed, a world in which he is ill-equipped to survive. With any luck, it won’t be too different. He doesn’t think Titania would send him off into a world so completely foreign from the one he left.

There’s shrieking of the joyful kind in the distance, and he follows it eagerly. If there’s people, then they might help him find his way back to civilization.

The rushing of a river draws him closer, and he follows the bank until he sees people. When he does see them, though, he stops dead and nearly topples over from sheer shock. Titania’s words suddenly make much more sense.

Because the women are wearing less clothing than Jaskier has ever seen on a woman except in the midst of intercourse. One woman is wearing a tight legless and armless bodysuit of olive green with a laced-up cutout running down the front to expose most of her stomach. Another has an offensively orange bottom and top piece, the bottoms barely covering her privates and the top little more than nipple-covers held together by string.

They don’t seem at all bothered by the fact that they’re running around in the wilderness without any clothes on. Are they bewitched? Are they  _ monsters? _ They don’t look particularly monstrous, but Jaskier doesn’t always have the best instincts when it comes to such creatures. Geralt had told him so, repeatedly.

He tries to slip into the trees, but the girl in green notices him before he can. Not that it would be easy for him in his brightly-colored finery. She doesn’t seem particularly afraid of him, or bloodthirsty, but not all monsters are slavering and instinct-driven. He grips the strap of his lute case in hands that are still filthy and offers her a smile that he hopes says, “Hello, miss, if you would let me be on my way without trouble I’d be much obliged.”

“Hi!” she says with a broad smile, raising her arm in a wave. Jaskier stares at her hairless underarms in befuddlement. She laughs, but he doesn’t think it’s a cruel one. “Where’s the Renaissance Faire?”

“What’s… What’s a Renaissance Faire?” Jaskier asks cautiously, stepping back onto the riverbank.

The one in orange joins in the laughter, her teeth shockingly white against the rich-soil darkness of her skin. She reminds him of Téa and Véa in appearance, except she’s much friendlier. “Of course,” she says. “I offer thee mine most sincere apologies.”

“What brings you to this river, then, good sir?” The one in green asks.

“Titania,” Jaskier answers simply.

“Like, from the play?”

“Titania, Queen of the Fair Folk,” Jaskier says.

The young women glance at each other before breaking out into high, giggly laughter. It’s sweet and melodious, especially laid over the rushing river, and Jaskier both entertains and dismisses that they might be sirens over the span of a moment.

They’re most definitely some sort of strange magical creature that will keep him like a pet unless he leaves right now, though.

“Madames,” he says with a deep bow, although these ladies are madames of nothing except, perhaps, a brothel, “I appreciate your company, but must take my leave. Could you point me in the direction of the nearest village, perhaps?”

“If you walk up the river a ways, you’ll find a bridge that takes you into Elkfield,” the one in orange says.

“Thank you kindly.” He stares down at his dirt-stained outfit. “Might you, perchance, know of a decent tailor in town?”

“Uh, there’s a Walmart, but I don’t think you’ll find what you’re looking for there.” The one in green runs her eyes up and down his body, lips pressed together like she's fighting back a smile. “Where did you get an outfit like that, anyways?”

“Titania had it made for me.” He smiles. “She quite adored me, you know.”

“Right,” the one in orange says, nodding. The girls look at each other and have some sort of conversation without words. “Listen, man, I get the whole—” She waves a dripping hand. “—LARP-ing thing, but, uh…”

The other one speaks up. “You’re terribly good at it and we’re wondering if you’re… alright.”

Something has gone very wrong over the course of their conversation, although Jaskier would be hard-pressed to figure out what. “I will be,” he assures them. “I just need to get to town. I’d much rather find a room at an inn than camp, seeing as I have no gear with which to do so.”

“Sure,” the one in green says. “No, yeah, that makes sense. Uh, why don’t you come with us? We can take you to Elkfield so you don’t have to walk as far.”

“I’m sure your offer is made in complete kindness,” he says, “but, erm, you see, I’d rather not be devoured, so no thank you.”

“De—Devoured?” The one in orange snorts inelegantly. “We’re not interested in men.”

“Ah,” he says. “You’re dryads?” This is fine for a moment before Jaskier recalls the fate of all men who enter Brokilon. “Oh no. This isn’t Brokilon, is it? I—I didn’t mean to intrude upon your land. I’m truly very sorry.”

“Brokilon?” The one in green scrunches her face up into an expression of confusion, her pretty nose wrinkling. “That old enchanted forest? Of course not.”

“Listen,” the one in orange says. “Just come back to Elkfield with us, alright? We’re… worried.”

Jaskier looks around at the woods, the river, the sunlight. He looks at the women in the water, nearly naked, although he keeps his eyes above their shoulders. It’s not the worst idea in the world, he supposes, to let these women take him to Elkfield. He’s done stupider things.

_ Like allow the Queen of the Fair Folk to take him on as her court bard and lover. _

“Alright,” he says.

The two of them step out of the river, and he politely abets his eyes as they towel off. They then put on clothes, although “clothes” feels a little too generous. They each put on a short, hooded, short-sleeved excuse for a dress that zips up the front. The one in orange has a black dress, the one in green a white dress.

“Do you have horses?” he asks as they sling bags over their shoulders and slide on sandals. He hopes they have horses. He’s already exhausted from climbing out of Titania’s court.

“We have a car,” the one in green says.

Car. It must be some new form of saying carriage, he supposes, and is delighted. These women are clearly rich! Everything makes much more sense now, particularly their eccentricity. Only the rich are so well-off and freed of duties as to develop such eccentric habits. He readjusts his lute case and follows them happily down the riverbank, wondering if they’re the daughters of wealthy merchants. He doesn’t think they’re nobility; no noble lady he knows, no matter how eccentric, would ever waltz around in a river dressed so scandalously.

The sounds of more people finally trickle into his ears, and he nearly sighs in relief. They must be getting close to where the women left their carriage. But there’s another sound too, an oscillating roaring noise unlike that of any river he’s heard. It sounds more like a growl than a waterfall.

Several feet in front of him, the women are talking quietly to each other. Their heads are ducked together, their faces creased. For whatever reason, they do seem genuinely concerned about him. It’s not like Titania tortured him or anything, even if he did spend some time in the Faerie Realm. He’s perfectly fine.

As they approach the strange roaring and the laughter of children, Jaskier turns over Titania’s words. Her advice to abandon all that he thinks he knows can’t just be because he was going to stumble across these lovely, scantily-clad ladies. He supposes he’ll figure it out eventually, though, and sets the thought aside.

They round a bend in the river and Jaskier almost chokes on his own tongue.

There’s a section of the river marked by bright, floating spheres strung together. Inside the marked-off section is no more than twenty people, mostly children whose guardians rest on the bank. This in and of itself is not too unusual. What’s unusual is that everybody is almost naked, and this is no communal bathhouse. The closest thing Jaskier’s ever seen is an orgy, but there are  _ children _ .

“What is it?” the one in green asks.

“Why is everyone dressed like that?” he demands. “It’s—There are children here!”

“They’re just…” The one in orange looks between him and the other people. “They’re just in bathing suits.”

“Well I never,” he sputters, puffing himself up. He feels faint, and entirely overwhelmed. “This—Titania didn’t warn me—What…” He looks at the two of them. “What year is it? How long have I been in the court?”

“It’s 2020,” the one in green says.

Jaskier makes a high squeaking noise and shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, that can’t be possible. I did  _ not _ just spend 758 years in the Faerie Realm.”

“You think it’s…” The one in green scrunches up her pretty nose as she does the math. “You thought it was 1262?”

“Of course not,” he huffs. “I thought it was 1263. I  _ entered _ the Faerie Realm in 1262 and stayed for a year.”

“Right,” the one in orange says. “Okay. Let’s get you to a hospital.”

“Maybe not a hospital,” the one in green says. “I mean, there  _ are _ monsters and stuff.”

“But faeries?” The one in orange shakes her head. “Come on.”

“Is there a nearby mage?” the one in green proposes. “Maybe that would be the best deal. They could see if he’s lying—”

“I’m not,” he interjects.

“—and we can take him to the hospital if he is.”

The one in orange shrugs. “It’s your car.”

They beckon him to follow them and make their way towards a dirt trail that leads into the woods, in the direction of the weird roaring sound. Bewildered and a little dazed, Jaskier follows without question. The grip he has on his lute case strap is strangulatory.

At the end of the trail is an odd plateau of dark, hard stone, divided up into open boxes by bold yellow lines. Many of the boxes contain oddly-shaped carriages that gleam under the sunlight, but there are no horses anywhere. Just beyond the plateau is what looks like a road, but instead of being dirt or stone it’s the same dark substance as the plateau. There’s more yellow lines running down the middle of it. The road is empty, and the source of the roaring seems to have disappeared.

The one in green pulls a small, jingling object from her bag. Across the parking lot, a smaller burgundy carriage makes a grating chirping sound. Jaskier squawks and jumps back.

“Is your carriage enchanted?” he asks, creeping forward again when the women show no fear.

“No,” the one in green says. “It’s just a car.”

“Right,” he says. “Where are your horses, then?”

“Cars don’t need horses.” The one in orange has disappeared around the side of the car, and he watches through the windows as she climbs inside. The one in green opens two doors and gestures to the back on before climbing in the front one, pulling it shut behind her.

“Right,” he whispers to himself. “Okay.”

He climbs inside.

The seats are an interesting material, a slightly shiny gray with enough give that it’s not uncomfortable. It reminds him of leather. There are two distinct seats, with a section in the middle where he thinks a fifth passenger might be able to sit. He slings his lute case to his front and settles into the seat behind the one in green.

The two women pull long straps down from the sides of the car, and he watches as they lock the strap into place by plugging a mechanism attached to the strap to a box on the edge of the seat. He finds a strap of his own and follows suit, carefully sliding the metal into the box until it locks into place with a startling click.

“What are these straps?” he asks them.

The one in green fiddles with some of the many controls at the front of the car, and Jaskier almost screams when the car rumbles and comes to life around them. Instead, he clutches his lute to his chest and stares at the women with wide eyes. They don’t look disturbed in the slightest by the vibrations and the soft roaring beneath them.

“They’re seatbelts,” the one in orange says, bending down to rummage through her bag. “They keep you safe.”

_ Safe? From what? _

The one in green slings her arm over the back of the orange woman’s seat and turns half-around to stare past Jaskier through the glass at the back of the carriage. Jaskier is manly and doesn’t squeak even a little bit as the car begins to move, rolling backwards and out of the box. He only hyperventilates a little bit as the car navigates its way through the aisles of boxes to a place where the plateau blends into the road.

Once on the road, the car picks up speed until they’re traveling far faster than Jaskier has ever moved, even when carried by Roach at a full sprint. The trees that line the road blur into each other, and Jaskier watches the ground in front of them vanish underneath the car’s wheels. He groans and huddled over his lute, eyes squeezed tightly shut, but he can still feel how fast they’re moving deep in his gut.

“Hm,” one of the women says. “I assume they didn’t have cars back in 1262?”

“I don’t like this,” he says feebly. “I’ve changed my mind, I’d like to walk.”

“Don’t worry,” the one in green says. “We’re not far out. There’s a mage’s shop in town.”

They slow down, at least, once they get into town. Jaskier gazes raptly out the windows at all the bright colors, the blinking and flashing things, the scandalously dressed people. He barely sees any women in dresses, and those who do are only wearing dresses in the loosest sense. There are no sleeves, and he can see all of their knees. He just can’t believe that this is the modern fashion; it could hardly be any more different than what he’s used to.

“Awesome,” the woman in green says, sounding pleased as they pull to the side of the road. “Street parking, and right outside!”

They climb out of the car, Jaskier with trembling legs and hands. He shifts his lute case to his back once more and tries to smooth down the front of his soil-covered doublet. His heart is racing in his chest, a frantic, uneven beat not unlike that of a horse’s hooves.

How he wishes they’d had real horses.

“This is the mage’s place, right?” the one in orange asks, staring at a purple storefront. There are massive windows that expose most of the store, filled with magical ingredients and other knickknacks. It’s, sadly, the most familiar thing Jaskier has seen thus far.

“Yeah.”

As he follows them inside—and huh, that’s weird, the temperature dropped drastically as soon as they stepped through the doorway—Jaskier looks for the shopkeeper and bites back a sigh when he recognizes her face.

“Ah. Yennefer.”

“That’s  _ Miss _ Yennefer to you, thank you very much,” she says without looking up from fiddling with something or other. The whole place reeks of lilac and gooseberries and, under it all, the now-familiar scent of Chaos.

She’s just as terrifyingly beautiful as she was when they first met, long raven curls tumbling to mid-back and a perfectly symmetrical face. Her clothes, though, are shockingly different. She wears black shorts made of a curious, rough-looking material that start high on her waist but don’t extend farther than an inch beyond her crotch, with a tight, long-sleeved black shirt tucked into the shorts. As per her usual, there’s a large window cut into the chest to display her cleavage, leaving a remaining strap of fabric to wrap around her neck like a collar. All sorts of silver earrings drip from her like wax, one delicate chain even looping between two piercing sites.

“You know her?” the one in orange asks Jaskier as the one in green says, “We found a man by the river who claims he’s been kidnapped by the fairy queen. Is he telling the truth or do we need to bring him to the hospital?”

Jaskier hums and crosses his arms over his chest as Yennefer processes what she’s just been told. At long last she lifts her eyes to the woman in green, skepticism dancing across her features. Her eyeshadow is impeccable, tinged just slightly with silver to match her earrings and excessive rings, and Jaskier isn’t sure if he hates her or is jealous of her.

“Fairies aren’t real,” she says.

“Tell that to Titania, you vile witch,” Jaskier huffs, annoyed that nobody is taking him seriously.

Yennefer’s purple eyes slide from the woman in green to Jaskier, and he watches the color fade from her face to make stark the faint rogue she has painted across her cheeks. Her red-painted mouth falls slack. He’s almost tempted to laugh; he’s never seen her like this, always so impeccable.

“Jaskier,” she whispers.

He spreads his hands and offers a thin smile. “Hello, Yennefer.”


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt is…

Tired isn’t the right word, but also, it is. He’s  _ old _ . He’s tired. He’s treated as close to a normal human as he could ever aspire to be, these days, but he’s still othered by society. All the freaky contact lenses and hair dye in the world can’t cause any normal human to radiate the sense of “predator” that emanates from him. It’s quite literally human nature to be afraid of him, as something bigger and more lethal than them. He’s only treated normally by Yen and other “old” sorceresses; the young ones don’t remember a world with other Witchers, and so still he’s an oddity amongst oddities.

At least he has Ciri, when she swings around. Her and Yen help keep him sane, constants in an ever-changing world. He can at least take solace in the knowledge that he won’t be the last one standing; the extra mutagens mean he ages at the same speed as a sorcerer or sorceress—which is to say, hardly at all—and his job is far more dangerous than Yennefer’s or even Ciri’s, considering he has only the meager signs to aid him.

He’s in his kitchen—the expansive windows offering a view of the sprawling vineyards he owns—poking unenthusiastically at a bowl of quinoa salad when a suckling, staticky sound alerts him to the fact that a portal is being opened almost right behind him. The unchanged scent of lilac and gooseberries lets him know it’s Yen popping in for a visit. His mood is immediately lifted; he and Yen may not see each other often, but they don’t need to. After more than 700 years, their relationship isn’t one that needs much maintenance.

“Yen,” he says warmly, spinning his seat around to face her. Spinning chairs and stools are one modern invention he enjoys greatly—modern only in the sense that it’s not from his first century or two of life.

She looks stunning, in high-waisted black denim shorts and a tight black shirt with what she loves to refer to as a “boob window.” Her earrings are more elaborate than the last time he saw her, but other than that she’s rather unchanged.

“Geralt.” Her voice is too stern for this to be a mere social visit, and her face is concerningly pale. “There’s… Something has happened.”

“To Ciri?” Geralt asks, his stomach dropping. He knows she’s capable of fighting her own battles, but she’s his daughter, and he’ll never be able to shake the instinct to help her. Just as, if she were to get hurt or—gods forbid—die on any sort of hunt, he’d never be able to forgive himself no matter how old he lives to be.

“No, no, Ciri’s fine.”

Relief floods through his veins, but he redirects it into a scowl. “What is it, then?”

If it’s not Ciri, he doesn’t know what could possibly have Yen looking like that.

She heaves a heavy sigh, cleavage rising and falling with the gusty motion. “It would be easier to show you, but—Geralt.”

“What.”

“It's not a trick; I’ve made sure of it.”

He makes a confused grumble and gestures for her to go on. Whatever she’s talking about will probably make more sense once he actually figures out what it is.

She opens another portal, the smell sharp like ozone. He barely refrains from wrinkling his nose; all these centuries, and he still loathes portals. At least non-magical transportation is faster now.

On the other side of the portal is one of the little pop-up shops Yen likes to occupy herself with. It’s her newest one, the one she doesn’t have an assistant for yet and has to run herself. Just on the other side of the portal, facing Geralt, stands…

It can’t be.

But, impossibly, it is.

It’s his flop of oak-brown hair, grown just slightly too long. It’s his cornflower-blue eyes, wide enough that Geralt can almost see his own reflection in them. It’s his lips, slack. It’s his cheeks, mottled red. It’s his fingers, long and fine and dirt-stained and curled around the strap of his lute-case with too much force. It’s his hip, popped out so that he perpetually appears to be giving attitude or flirting.

His scent has changed, less chamomile and more wildflowers, but the base of it is still  _ Jaskier _ . Still  _ home _ in that way that can’t be defined in words. Geralt feels himself relax in a way he hasn’t in 758 years, something deep inside him releasing like a held breath.

But even so, he finds himself petrified. His too-slow heart is skipping beats in his chest, galloping about in an ecstatic frenzy, while his mind is trying to come up with any kind of situation that would allow Jaskier to be here, now, not having aged. Falling short at that goal, his mind is trying to figure out what kind of creature “Jaskier” could be and trying to remember to trust Yen. Between the two opposing forces stands Geralt, hopelessly battered.

“Hi,” Jaskier says after several agonizing seconds during which no one even moves. His voice is soft, unusual for the loudmouthed bard, and Geralt doesn’t understand until: “If you could say… anything, really, that would be splendid. I’d just like to know if your last words to me still stand.”

_ If life could give me one blessing… _

The creases on Jaskier’s face are fear, Geralt realizes, and it hits him like a wyvern’s tail. He opens his mouth but is struck breathless by the way Jaskier’s scent sours with a rush of adrenaline—with fear of him and his cruel mouth.

_...it would be to take you off of my hands. _

He can see the interviewer’s mouth, overlined with appallingly red lipstick. Her mouth wraps curiously— _ eagerly _ —around the words “You’ve lived a very long life; you have to have made at least a few mistakes. Are there any decisions that you regret?” and Geralt doesn’t give Renfri a passing thought. All he can think of is a northern mountain, a golden dragon, the sting of his hair whipping across his face as fury fades to a chilly sorrow.

“No,” Geralt eventually grits out when Jaskier’s face twists up and he realizes that he never answered. “No, I—They don’t. Stand.”

Yennefer makes a disgruntled sound in the back of her throat and gestures for Jaskier to step through the portal. He does so with a shudder, and she closes the portal with a happy sigh before leaving the room. She’s likely gone to raid his vintage wines, but Geralt can’t be bothered to make any effort to stop her.

“Oh?” Jaskier smiles, but it’s twitchy and wrong. “You’re telling me that if life were to give you one blessing, you wouldn’t choose for me to disappear aga—“

_ “No.” _ Geralt all but dives forward and grabs one of Jaskier’s biceps, his breaths coming too fast. “No.”

Jaskier looks genuinely startled, and it tears Geralt’s heart in half. “Oh?”

“I—” Geralt flaps his mouth for a moment before he can summon the courage to say what needs to be said. “Don’t go again. Please.”

“You noticed I was gone?” Jaskier says with a fake little laugh, looking away. His neck is  _ right there, _ and it takes everything Geralt has not to bury his face in it and not move until the ache in his chest is gone. He doesn’t have the right, after what he said.

“I noticed,” he says roughly. “I’ve spent almost all of the last 757 years and 364 days thinking that you’d been killed by a monster or some angry cuckold—that you spent your last minutes needing me, and I wasn’t there to protect you because I was too wrapped up in self-pity.”

“You thought I was dead.” Jaskier breathes, his face pinched like he’s only just realizing this.

“What happened?” Geralt demands, mind still reeling in an effort to figure out how Jaskier could be here. “How…?”

“I wandered into a faerie ring and they decided to bring me to Titania instead of killing me. She took a liking to me and I spent a lovely year in her court before departing.”

“She just… let you go.” Geralt says flatly, already annoyed again at Jaskier’s lack of self-preservation. The fae don’t just _ let people go. _ There’s always a catch.

“Yes,” Jaskier says, clearly unhappy. He looks to the window and the vineyard beyond, mouth pulled into a frown. “I’m not as stupid as you believe me to be, Geralt. I know all the legends about the fae being tricky at best, and that you’re thinking there’s no way they just let me walk free.”

Geralt could agree with Jaskier and ask what the catch is, because there has to be one. He could ignore the first part, the part that makes something ugly squirm in Geralt’s stomach.

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Geralt blurts. “I think you have no self-preservation skills. There’s a difference.”

Jaskier’s mouth flattens into a thin line and he steps back, arm sliding from Geralt’s grip. “Thank you,” he says stiffly. “That’s much better.”

“No, I—” Geralt sighs and drags his hands over his face, feeling the stubble of his beard scrape over his palms. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh?” Jaskier still won’t look at him, arms crossed as he scans the kitchen.

Geralt swallows more words that would doubtlessly come out mangled and tells himself that Jaskier’s just looking at the new fixtures. He’s never seen anything like the farm sink that sits below the sprawling windows, or the shiny fridge, microwave, stove, and oven that modernize his old home. The interior is largely rustic and not too foreign to Jaskier—stone and crude-cut wood, stuccoed walls with arches instead of proper doors—but most everything nowadays will be foreign to him.

“I’m only drawing on experience,” Geralt summons in an effort to defend himself, and winces immediately. Jaskier either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, his expression turned thunderous.

“I should’ve stayed,” he mutters viciously, turning away from Geralt to step towards the door to the dining room. “I should’ve fucking stayed.”

The words strike deeper than they have any right to. Geralt can only watch, stunned, as Jaskier storms from the kitchen. His lute case knocks against his stiff spine with every long stride, and a longing for Jaskier’s music tightens abruptly around his heart like a barbed wire noose. Geralt wonders where he went wrong.

He finishes his quinoa salad with slow, morose bites. He grinds it between his teeth as he looks around the kitchen, identifying each and every item he can think of that would be completely new to Jaskier. The toaster oven, certainly. The freezer—gods and goddesses, the freezer is still one of Geralt’s favorite inventions and he knows that Jaskier will worship it too as soon as he discovers ice cream.

Actually, that’s not a bad idea.

Geralt’s not one for overwhelming flavors such as cotton candy or cake batter, which he has a feeling Jaskier will like as soon as he gets used to ice cream being a thing, so he grabs a plain chocolate. Not overwhelming to the senses, and not so plain as to portray ice cream as unappetizing. At the last minute, almost having forgotten, he grabs a spoon to go with the little pint.

He’s not in the dining room or the living room, but Geralt can hear movement from downstairs. As odd as it is, Jaskier has probably joined Yen in the expansive wine cellar. With any luck they won’t drink too much wine; he depends on its sales to keep him financially secure.

They’re deep in the cellar, Geralt realizes tiredly upon opening the door and judging the volume of Jaskier’s voice. That’s where the expensive, aged wine is. While he knows that Yennefer has standards when it comes to her drink, this feels pointed. Retribution for having to listen to Jaskier complain, most likely.

“...hasn’t seen me for  _ centuries, _ and our  _ very first conversation _ he tells me that I’m not  _ stupid _ , I just don’t have any  _ self-preservation skills. _ The sheer nerve! I had half a mind to whack him right upside his stupid head,” Jaskier is seething, and the hurt and anger that roll off of him are strong enough to reach Geralt’s nose from the other side of the cellar.

Geralt winces and readjusts his grip on the perspiring ice cream carton. He wishes desperately that Ciri were here; she always knew how to interact with people, even if she never got the chance to meet Jaskier.

He makes his way to the far end of the cellar on nearly-silent feet, where Yen is leaning delicately against a shelf of Geralt’s oldest wonders and Jaskier is gesturing widely enough to cause Geralt’s anxiety to spike. Yen makes eye contact with him over Jaskier’s shoulder and narrows her eyes at him; Jaskier is too preoccupied to notice.

“Here’s your chance,” she says.

“What?” Jaskier asks, too preoccupied with his anger to be fully aware of his surroundings.

“Your chance to hit Geralt.” Her eyes drop to his hands. “I don’t think he’d begrudge you a hit; he broke out the ice cream in an apology attempt.”

“Ice cream?”

“It’s...new. To you.”

“It was invented centuries ago,” Yennefer drawls, “but you were gone.”

“What is it?” Jaskier looks hesitant as he takes the carton from Geralt, like it’s poisoned or about to bite him. He scowls at the damp carton but accepts the spoon and scoops up the daintiest bite of ice cream Geralt’s ever seen.

Yen, behind him, looks like she’s fighting a smile at his wariness.

Geralt watches shock spread across Jaskier’s face when the ice cream hits his tongue. He’s always been a bit of a hedonist, and ice cream is certainly right up his alley. Chocolate ice cream may not be—yet—but it’s as rich as most foods Jaskier prefers.

“Oh,” he says quietly, blinking owlishly at the carton in his hand. “That…”

“The poet, at a loss for words?” Yennefer teases.

“Forgive me,” Jaskier sniffs. “I’m attempting to absorb this experience to its fullest.”

“Do you like it?” Geralt dares to ask.

“It’s—” Jaskier pokes at the ice cream and licks off what clings to the spoon. “It’s certainly unlike anything I’ve tasted before. How does it stay cold? Is it magic?”

“Only the magic of refrigeration.”

“It will melt if you leave it out long enough,” Geralt says. “It’s sweating already.”

“Sweating?” Jaskier’s face twists, mouth puckering. He casts a worried glance at the ice cream. “Is it…alive?”

“No, it’s just a term. Another way of saying that condensation is forming.”

Jaskier takes another bite, larger this time. He savors it, rolling the ice cream around in his mouth. Geralt sees the moment that he makes the decision about whether or not he likes it, licking his lips and diving back into the carton. Yennefer looks like she’s trying not to laugh.

“This is good,” Jaskier declares, licking the spoon entirely clean of ice cream before diving in for another bite. Geralt watches his tongue curl around the spoon and is embarrassed by the flash of jealousy that sweeps through him. “Oh, Melitele’s blessed tits, this is  _ splendid.” _

“Don’t eat it too fast,” Geralt cautions. “You can give yourself an awful headache.”

“Ah, brain freeze,” Yennefer sighs. “The first time I suffered it, I thought I was dying.”

Jaskier hums, solely paying attention to the ice cream.

Geralt meets Yennefer’s eyes, Jaskier between them, and finds his own miraculous amusement reflected there. How is he here? How is he standing between them, ice cream in hand? Geralt has been grieving him for centuries, and now—and now…

“Why don’t—” He chokes on the words, stubborn things, Jaskier’s forte. “Why don’t we go upstairs?”

Upstairs, where shelves won’t close in on him with each happy little sound Jaskier makes. Where he’s not worried about Yennefer stealing his most profitable wine. Where there’s a breeze to cool his heating cheeks and views to distract himself with.

Jaskier keeps his focus almost entirely on the ice cream until they’re settled in the front parlor. Yennefer insists on calling it as such; Geralt tries to get away with less propriety. Parlor is such a rich word. He may be rich, but that doesn’t mean he has to act like it.

“So it’s…” Jaskier takes another bite of ice cream. “It’s 2020?”

“It is,” Yen confirms.

“Sounds fake.” Jaskier wrinkles his nose and shoves another spoonful into his mouth. “Who decided that such a year was allowed, huh? It doesn’t sound  _ right.” _

“You know what year really didn’t sound right?” Yen asks the room, and then answers her own question. “1712.”

“I...don’t have an opinion,” Geralt says. “But sure.”

“So, what did I miss?” Jaskier asks them. “Besides several centuries. Anything particularly interesting? How did Valdo Marx die?”

“Eaten by a fleder in Novigrad,” Geralt answers.

Jaskier and Yennefer both seem surprised. Yennefer’s eyebrows are raised where she reclines dramatically across a chaise lounge that only she uses. Jaskier looks up from his ice cream, blinking excessively.

“You know that off the top of your head?”

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it, caught. “You never shut up about him. I knew who he was.”

“And you remembered the circumstances of his death so vividly that you can tell me about it off the top of your head 750 years later?” Jaskier asks.

“I thought you’d find it funny,” Geralt mumbles.

“750 years, Geralt,” Jaskier says, ice cream forgotten. He sets it on the table, spoon stabbed firmly into it. His tone is soft; Geralt has forgotten the contours of his voice, all the little lilts and tells. Jaskier has the advantage here, after only being gone for the span of a year. “That’s a long time to remember something.”

It is. Geralt has no excuse.

“Well,” Yennefer says, pushing herself off of the chaise, “I ought to get going. The shop doesn’t keep itself, after all.”

“You’re—You’re leaving me here?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt clenches his jaw and pretends that the words don’t strike right to his core like centuries of his barriers just don’t exist. Yennefer catches his eyes and a challenge blazes within her own.  _ Man up. Get along. Tell him. _ How he wishes it were as simple as speech, despite how crudely words come to him! But confessing would be a complete exposure. He can’t remember the last time he was ever so exposed to anyone.

“I am,” Yennefer tells Jaskier. “I’m certainly not putting you up; Geralt’s got the room.”

“At the very least, as a fellow fashionable character, could you—” He waves his hand. “—clean up my clothes?”

“Hmm,” she muses. “They are rather nice.”

“Fae-made,” Jaskier boasts.

She flicks her hand and Jaskier’s clothes are instantly clean. It’s nothing unlike he’s ever seen her do, but his eyes fly wide open like he’s never seen magic before.

“What is it?” Geralt asks.

“I’ve never—” He stares at Yennefer as if she’s some entirely new creature, some kind of goddess. “Does it look so brilliant to you?”

“Does—” She frowns. “What?”

“Your magic,” he breathes. “You can’t see it?”

“I can do it,” she says, “but no, I can’t see Chaos itself.” There’s a beat of silence. “Can you see Chaos, Jaskier?”

“I couldn’t before I entered the Faerie Realm,” he says. “I can now, it seems.”

“Fascinating,” she murmurs. “No human to cross into the Faerie Realm has ever come back sane. Is this a symptom? Or merely the effect of the Faerie Realm on a stable mind?”

“My mind is only stable because Titania wished to keep it that way.”

“What did she want from you, bard?” Yennefer demands, sitting back down. “Why did she keep you alive and sane?”

“At first she wanted my music,” Jaskier says. “But I was, ah—” His heart quickens, and something sharp sours his smell. “—in a slump. She allowed me the space and time to pull myself out of it, permitted me to entertain her court, and then...took me to bed.”

“You slept with the Queen of the Fair Folk,” Yen says flatly. Geralt’s inclined to agree with her sentiment.

“You’re even more like yourself than I remembered,” Geralt says, which isn’t the right thing to say if Jaskier’s narrowed eyes are any indication. Fuck.

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment,” he says at last. “Because I know you didn’t just insult me for the second time in ten minutes after more than seven centuries of thinking me dead, right?”

“Right,” Geralt flounders. “Yeah. Right.”

Yennefer mumbles something that sounds like, “Pathetic.”

Jaskier stares scrutinizingly at Geralt for a few moments longer before turning his attention back to Yen, gaze unclouded by dislike. It’s a novel sight.

“So she gave you the ability to see Chaos, quite possibly by accident,” Yen says. “I would so love to study you.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve needles…”

Yen’s eyebrows skyrocket. “You’re serious?”

He shrugs. “Well, it’s something to do while I acquaint myself with this new world.”

A buzzing starts in Geralt’s pocket, and he curses as he digs his phone out. It’s Tiffany, Zerrikania’s Secretary of Defense, and he sighs before accepting the call and bringing the phone to his ear.

“Ah, good, you’re still alive,” she says before he can even say hello, frank as ever. “Listen, we’ve got a problem over here, and you know we like to take care of things ourselves but this thing has taken out half a squad already. How soon can you get here?”

“Hmm,” he says. “Theoretically I could be there in under five minutes; Yennefer is standing in my living room. More likely it’ll take me between a day and two days.”

“Make it five minutes, please,” Tiffany asks, and then hangs up.

“Hey Yen,” he starts.

She rolls her eyes. “Go get your gear.”

“You gonna bring me back the same way?” he asks, standing from the couch. “Rental car services are a bitch.”

“Yes, yes.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Now shoo.”

“No murdering him, Yen,” Geralt warns on his way out.

“Fuck off.”

His gear is where it always is, on the stand in his room built just for this purpose. It had once felt bizarre to go an entire day without his armor; even in Kaer Morhen during the winter, when the old fortress still existed, he and his brothers would wear at least some of their armor more often than not. The weight and feel of it was securing. But what need has he of armor in a Toussaintian vineyard? So he wears jeans and t-shirts like an everyday human and only puts on his gear when it’s time to go deal with a monster.

He changes his clothes first, though, sliding into a permanently bloodstained black-on-black outfit more suited to hunting. There’s a ritual feel to it that settles him, grounds him in the mindspace of a hunter that no longer absorbs him but now sits idly in the back of his mind most days.

Jaskier probably hardly recognizes him. This might be a good thing; this way he can start over. This way, he can try to be better.

Yennefer and Jaskier are conversing in low tones when Geralt makes it back downstairs seven minutes later, geared up and carrying his satchels. Without a horse, he’s forced to transport everything manually, but at least he doesn’t have to walk the whole way. Jaskier’s eyes, so strikingly blue, slide from Yennefer to him as he enters the room, and Geralt watches some bizarre expression wash over his face.

Yennefer turns to look at him. “Ah, good. Tiffany’s going to scalp you, you know; you said five minutes and it’s been nearly ten.”

“Tiffany can try,” he says.

“Zerrikania, huh?” Jaskier says, twirling the spoon between his fingers. “I’ve never been.”

“I can take you,” he offers, stilted. “Once this job is done.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens and wavers for a moment before he settles on an unusually timid, “I’d like that. Thank you.”

Geralt can’t bring himself to do more than grunt in response. Yennefer sighs and opens a portal in the middle of the living room that opens up into Tiffany’s office. She’s sitting at her desk, her hair style in an afro instead of her usual knots, and barely glances up at the sudden expression of magic.

“Good afternoon, Geralt,” she says mildly. “I’m so glad you could make it. Thank you, Yennefer.”

“Far be it from me to reject a request from you, Tiffany,” Yennefer drawls. “Go on now, Geralt. Kill the beasties.”

“Why do I put up with you?” he sighs, and trudges into Tiffany’s office. He glances over his shoulder once he’s through, hoping for one last glimpse of Jaskier—here at last, impossibly—but the portal is closed before he can finish turning his head. He swallows the cold lump in his throat and pretends it was never there at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier’s mouth goes a little dry when Geralt steps through the portal and disappears, leaving him alone with Yennefer in a strange world. He takes another bite of the iced cream. He doesn’t know how it’s possible to make something so delicious, but it seems that the future is full of surprises.

“Did you know,” he muses, staring at the space where the portal no longer exists, “that when I first saw the women who brought me to you, I thought that they were monsters of some sort? Sirens, possibly. I mean, did you see what they were wearing? Or perhaps more accurately: did you see how little they were wearing?”

Yennefer laughs and sits back down on the chaise. “Color me amused; Jaskier, a modern prude?”

“I’m not a  _ prude,” _ he sputters. “It’s just that they were all but  _ naked. _ In  _ public. _ And then we saw more people, and there were  _ children _ exposed to such...fashion choices!”

“It’s called the twenty-first century,” Yennefer says patronizingly. “Fashion does this funny thing called evolving, you know.”

He narrows his eyes at her and takes another bite of iced cream, sucking angrily on it until it dissolves completely.

“Don’t worry,” she says, kinder now. “I know it must be a shock, emerging into a world so different from the one you knew. We’ll help you adjust.”

“What was that thing that Geralt had?” Jaskier asks, embarrassed by his ignorance but not so much that he’d rather wallow in it. “The flat little box?”

“The—Oh, his phone. It’s… Hmm. It’s a device that allows him to speak with people from all over the Continent instantly.”

“So it’s a xenovox?”

“No. Xenovoxes are much more limited in their function. Here, let me show you.” She stands up and sits down next to him, which would be a little worrying if she didn’t immediately pull a phone from her own pocket to show it to him. Hers looks different from Geralt’s. His had been a plain black, while one side of hers is purple and sparkling. Hers also has a little circle in the center of the purple side, with an image of a hand holding up the middle finger. “So you open it with your face,” she says, holding up the phone so that the black side faces her. The screen is very suddenly not black, and Jaskier jumps a bit when the screen goes quickly from black, to an image of a young woman with white-blonde hair, to an image of a beach half-obscured by a lot of little boxes. “If your face isn’t inputted into the recognition system, you can use a number passcode instead.”

“This looks like magic,” he says. “But there’s no magic on it.”

“Technology has come a long way,” she says. “Remind me to show you the toilet. Oh, and the shower.”

“Of course,” he says, wondering how toilets of all things could’ve changed so much.

“So you can go to this app to call people like you do with a xenovox,” Yennefer says, pointing to one of the little boxes. “This one allows you to send text messages to people.” She taps it, and the screen changes again to show a list of names. She taps one called  _ The Idiot _ and the screen changes to show a series of written messages, some stemming from one side of the screen and some stemming from the other side. There’s even a picture, which Yennefer shows him just by dragging her finger down the screen to reveal even more messages.

“Wow,” he breathes. “What are all the other boxes for?”

“Well—” She swipes upward from the bottom of the screen and the screen returns to the image of the beach. “—they’re mostly games, but there’s social media and such. Oh, and an app that allows you to watch all sorts of videos.”

“What’s a video?”

Yennefer stares at him for a long time before saying quietly, “Oh, yes, that’s right. You don’t know what that is.” She stares at her phone screen. “Melitele, I’m old.”

“If I agree with that statement, will you curse me?”

Yennefer laughs—she actually laughs—and shakes her head. “No,” she says. “It’s true. And you’re old too, if we were to carbon-date you, but you’re still technically young.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what carbon-dating is, but he’s not going to ask. It sounds like something he wouldn’t understand even with excessive explanations.

“So: videos. They’re like pictures, right? But they’re extended. They move. And you can hear them, too.”

He blinks at her.

“Hmm, she says. Geralt has rubbed off on her after centuries, it seems. “Here, let me show you.” She taps a couple times, changing the screen, and eventually finds herself with an image on the screen partially obscured by a triangle. Then, much to his surprise, she hands him the phone. It’s lighter than he’d expected. “Press play. Uh, tap the triangle.”

Jaskier taps the triangle.

There’s the sound of laughter, loud, and Jaskier looks frantically around for the source of it. Was this some kind of trick?

“No, no,” Yennefer says. “It’s coming from the phone, Jaskier. It’s a part of the video.”

He stares at the screen, befuddled. The movements of the image—and it is a moving image, which is almost unbelievable—are jerky and uncoordinated. He can still see a woman though, with brown curls. She’s sunk into a fluffy chair, giggling madly.

“Tell—” Someone out of view starts to speak, and begins to cackle again. It sounds rather like Yennefer. “Tell me what you said, let me record it.”

“I said,” the woman insists, her words slurred as she waves a hand dramatically through the air, “that moths, they’re just sad, ugly little butterflies.”

The cackling increases in pitch and intensity before the video stops and the sound is abruptly cut off.

“That’s a video?” he asks.

“Mhmm. Here, let me—” She does something with the screen, and then he can see himself reflected back like the finest and smallest of mirrors. He almost drops the phone in his shock. She taps a red button, fully invading his personal space, and small numbers appear at the top of the screen. “Look, now we’re recording a video. Say hi.”

“...Hello?”

She taps the red button a second time, taps the screen a few more times, and brings up a picture of the two of them as they’d just been. It’s similarly obscured by a triangle.

“Press play again.”

He does so warily, and jumps when this new video—a video of them, as they’d just been and no longer are—starts playing.

_ “Look, now we’re recording a video. Say hi.” _

He watches his own face scrunch up in confusion, watches his own mouth form the word,  _ “...Hello?” _

“I don’t like that,” he says when the video’s done, feeling his skin crawl. He all but shoves the phone back at Yennefer, and she laughs as she takes it from him.

“It’ll take some getting used to. Phones can also call someone with video and audio, like opening a small portal just for a conversation. I’d call someone but then I’d have to explain the situation to them, and I—Oh!”

Her phone is buzzing. The screen has changed to a reflection of her face, with the word  _ Triss _ at the top and two buttons at the bottom, one red and one green. Yennefer taps the green button and Jaskier jumps again when a new face appears on the screen. It’s the curly-haired woman who had been talking about moths.

“Yennefer, I’m going to murder Braxton,” Triss announces.

“What the hell,” he whispers.

Yennefer laughs. “Do tell me why, but first I’d like you to say hello to Jaskier.” She angles the screen towards Jaskier, and he realizes that there’s a small box showing his face in the top right corner of the screen. He shrinks away.

“That’s not recording, is it?” he asks.

“No,” Yennefer says as Triss speaks.

“Wait, wait,” she says. “Jaskier like the bard Geralt’s been grieving for seven centuries?”

“The exact one,” Yennefer confirms. “I’m trying to introduce him to technology, but there’s more than seven centuries to cover. He doesn’t like videos.”

“I don’t like videos of  _ me,” _ he says stiffly. “If you want to do that to yourself, go ahead.”

“This is amazing,” Triss breathes, her face moving to fill up most of the screen. “How is he still alive?”

“He wandered into the Faerie Realm and the queen’s bed.” Yennefer rolls her eyes. “I’d say I’m surprised, but I’m not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! ...No really, that's where my brain ran out of juice. Comments? Questions? Concerns? Pressing fury that must be expelled in a torrent of rage? Drop it all below!

**Author's Note:**

> Please drop a comment or kudos if you enjoyed it, and don't be afraid to interact! If you have questions about this, I'm glad to chat with you in the comments.


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